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39
Queen’s Gate Terrace
For the remainder of that week, the phone at Dimbleby Fine Arts rang nearly without cease. Cordelia Blake, Oliver’s long-suffering receptionist, served as the first line of defense. Those with names she recognized—longtime clients or representatives of prominent museums—she transferred directly to Oliver’s line. Those of lesser repute were asked to leave a detailed message and were given no assurance their inquiry would receive a reply. It was Mr. Dimbleby’s ambition, Cordelia explained, to find a suitable home for the Veronese. He had no intention of selling the painting to just anyone.
Unbeknownst to Cordelia, Oliver delivered each of her pink message slips to Sarah Bancroft in Mason’s Yard, and Sarah in turn forwarded the names and numbers to Gabriel in Venice. By the close of business on that Friday, Dimbleby Fine Arts had received more than two hundred requests to view the forged Veronese—from the directors of the world’s greatest museums, from representatives of prominent collectors, and from a multitude of journalists, art dealers, and learned connoisseurs of the Italian Old Masters. With the exception of a curator from the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, none of the names on the list was Spanish in origin, and none of thecallback numbers began with a Spanish country code. Forty-two women wished to see the painting, all of whom were well-known figures in the art world.
One of the women was a reporter from the London bureau of theNew York Times. With Gabriel’s approval, Oliver allowed her to see the painting the following Monday, and by Wednesday evening her story and accompanying photographs were the talk of the art world. The result was another avalanche of calls to Dimbleby Fine Arts. Twenty-two of the new callers were women. None of their names or callback numbers were Spanish in origin. And none, according to Cordelia Blake, spoke with a Spanish accent.
Gabriel feared the worst, that the forgery network’s front woman had no intention of attending the party he had so meticulously planned in her honor. Nevertheless, he instructed Oliver to prepare a schedule for the viewings. They were to last for one week only. The price band would be set at £15 million to £20 million, which would separate the wheat from the chaff. Oliver was to make it clear that he reserved the right not to sell to the highest bidder.
“And make sure you dim the lights in your exhibition room,” added Gabriel. “Otherwise, one of your eagle-eyed clients might notice that your newly discovered Veronese is a forgery.”
“Not a chance. On the surface, at least, it looks like Veronese painted it in the sixteenth century.”
“He did paint it, Oliver. I just happened to be holding the brush at the time.”
Gabriel spent Saturday sailing the Adriatic with Chiara and the children, and on Sunday, the day before the viewings were to begin, he flew to London. Upon arrival he headed for Christopher and Sarah’s maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace. There, arrayed on the granite-topped kitchen island, he found a surveillance photograph from Heathrow Airport, a scan of a Spanish passport, and a printout of a guest registration from the Lanesborough Hotel.
Smiling, Sarah handed him a glass of Bollinger Special Cuvée. “Tagliatelle with ragù or veal Milanese?”
She was tall and slender, with the square shoulders of a swimmer, narrow hips, and long legs. The pantsuit she wore was dark and businesslike, but the daring neckline of her white blouse revealed the fine curve of her delicate upturned breasts. Her hair was nearly black and hung long and straight down the center of her back. Even in the unflattering light of Heathrow’s Terminal 5, it shone like a newly varnished painting.
Her name, according to the passport, was Magdalena Navarro. She was thirty-nine and a resident of Madrid. She had arrived at Heathrow aboard Iberia Flight 7459 and had dialed Dimbleby Fine Arts at 3:07 p.m. from her room phone at the Lanesborough. The call had bounced automatically to Oliver’s mobile. After listening to the message, he had rung Sarah, who had prevailed upon her husband, an officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, to have an off-the-record peek at the Spanish woman’s particulars. He had done so with the approval of his director-general.
“It took our brethren at MI5 all of twenty minutes to pull together the file.”
“Did they have a look at her recent travel?”
“It seems she’s a frequent visitor to France, Belgium, and Germany. She also spends a fair amount of time in Hong Kong and Tokyo.”
Christopher ignited a Marlboro and exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling of his elegantly decorated drawing room. He wore a pair of fitted chinos and a costly cashmere pullover. Sarah was more casually attired, in stretch jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt. She plucked a cigarette from Christopher’s packet and quickly lit it before Gabriel could object.
“Any other interesting travel?” he asked.
“She goes to New York about once a month. Apparently, she lived there for a few years in the mid-aughts.”
“Credit card?”
“A corporate American Express. The company has a fuzzy Liechtenstein registry. She seems to use it only for foreign travel.”
“Which would help to conceal the real location of her home in Spain.” Gabriel turned to Sarah. “How did she describe herself in the message?”
“She says she’s a broker. But she doesn’t have a website or an entry on LinkedIn, and neither Oliver nor Julian has ever heard of her.”
“Sounds like she’s our girl.”
“Yes,” agreed Sarah. “The question is, how long do we make her wait?”
“Long enough to create the impression that she is of absolutely no consequence.”
“And then?”
“She’ll have to convince Oliver to let her see the painting.”
“Could be dangerous,” said Sarah.
“He’ll be fine.”
“It’s not Oliver I’m worried about.”
Gabriel smiled. “All’s fair in love and forgery.”
